


Nattler Nightmare

by Twisted_Melons



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bondage, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Mocking, Molestation, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Porn, Rape, Revenge Sex, Rough Sex, Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tears, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Melons/pseuds/Twisted_Melons
Summary: You are sexually assaulted by two teachers who hated you in high school at your 5-year reunion. Simple as that, this is smut. Obviously, big ol' trigger warning, read the tags, concept came to me in a wet dream so I set the POV to reader so that you may experience it too, If you're into that.
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

You walk slowly through quiet halls and feel warm waves of nostalgia wash over you. It is mid July and school is out. Not that it mattered to you, you had graduated from Nattler High 5 years ago today. You weren't here to attend a class, no, you were here for your graduating class's 5 year reunion. You thought it was silly, most schools had only decade reunions, but Nattler High was proud of the fact it's alumni loved the school and it's teachers, and the faculty would donate their own time and money to put together reunions every year for those who cared for a walk down memory lane. 

You were early, as you liked to be in your older age, and were able to move through the school without being bothered by other alumni, for the most part. It seems those who do pass by don't recognize you, and you cant blame them; you've changed a lot. Just five short years ago you were a teenager, and absolutely miserable. You were fairly popular, sure, but things weren't as well at home, and depression had wrapped around you like a snake suffocates it's victim. Life became so much easier when you scored your first apartment and got out from living under your parents. And with the help of a therapist you finally felt like a functioning person. Working full time has made you tired, but left you with a pride and sense of adulthood that allows you to look back at your teenage self and laugh at how small she felt, but how tough she acted. Apart from the emotional growth, you were aesthetically different in almost every way. You had put on a few pounds, sure, but the acne that plagued you all four years of high school had subsided and you felt as though your newfound happiness brought a visible facelift. You weren't a particularly unnatractive teen by nature, but these factors, plus the bottle-dyed hair and poorly-executed eye makeup left you looking almost as miserable as you felt. Your choice of wardrobe, ill-fitting on a changing body and unsure in style for a changing mind certainly did not help your case either. Your new style has come naturally, from work-necessitated slacks to floral button-ups gifted by new friends and in-laws, the clothes you wear reflect your mind all the same as they did in high school, which is to say your appearance makes evident a clearer and kinder headspace today, as much as your clothes displayed a tattered and torn psyche then.

You are stopped in front of a familiar and badly dented locker in the math block. 'Davy Jones Locker' was a common rendevouz point for mischevious students to dicuss mischevious plans. You could draw every crevice in the beaten metal by memory with how much time you've spent in it's presence. The dents predated your schooling experience at Nattler and no one quite knew how or when they got there, but the theories became wilder each passing year. It stirred a strange feeling in you to see how lasting an impression the probably instantanious teen rage-busting of a locker could leave on the school, and on you. You wonder how many people you may have left an impression on in your teenage rage.

You don't have long to dwell on that troubling thought as a voice calls out to you from down the hall. "Ma'am, can I help you? If you're here for the reunion the gymnasium isn't gonna be ready for another hour." You recognize the voice, but as he approaches you can clearly make out it is Mr. Mylo, an advanced mathematics teacher you thought had quit to persue a career in music. "That's not to say you aren't welcome to tour the school before the festivities of course!" He says with a smile. You return his manners and smile back, "Oh, I didn't realize just how early I was, I guess. It's nice to see you, Mr. Mylo!" This clearly puzzled him as you see the 5 stages of social grief flash before his eyes; you spare him the embarassment before he reaches 'acceptance that I do not recognize this person' and give him your name. "Oh, wow!" He says, and you wait for the obligatory comments on how you've 'cleaned up' or 'moved past that phase' but are surprised by his follow up; "Shit, has it been FIVE YEARS already?" You dont stop yourself from laughing at his quick drop of professionalism. "Five whole years, yup. Did you miss me?" You chance, to which he too-quickly responds "Do I miss my daily migraines? Haha, no. But it's not bad to see you again, you look great! So different." Ah, there it was. "I've gotten a lot of help" you say, hoping your tone matches the humbling nature of the sentence. You mean it. From monthly therapy to great roomates to your new friends, you have been drowned in support these last few years and attribute much of your healthy change to them. "Well it is great to see you are doing good for yourself, if I'm being honest with you I didn't think you were going to be able graduate 5 years ago, and look at you now, you look like you've just come from an office! What do you do?" He asked, seemingly gliding through the murk in the middle of that sentence to land on the question. While you certainly didn't appreciate his little confession, you couldn't blame him. Your main focus was not on your schoolwork and you were looking down the barrel of summercamp your entire senior year. It's honestly a miracle you made it. Gliding along with him, you keep the conversation going. "I work in sales, after graduation I got my license to sell health insurance and have been working with an agent uptown ever since". As you finish your last statement you notice Mr. Mylo's apparent lack of interest in your answer. Eyes wandering elsewhere, a nod here or there but starting to tap his foot, you haven't had someone tune you out so obviously since you were 17. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, you release him. "Don't you have anything you need to be attending to for the reunion party? I wouldn't want to hold you up." It seems he has picked up on your noticing, and snaps his full attention back to you. "Oh, no, I dont usually bother with that stuff, not too many people are overly stoked to see the math guy when they visit, the elective teachers deal with all that. I was just distracted because I was hoping I could sit down, the old knees arent what they used to be, but I wouldn't mind continuing our conversation if you'd want to come to my classroom? I've still got some of your graffiti on my desks I'm sure you'll get a kick out of." And he began leading the way.

You weren't entirely sure you wanted to sit down and talk more with Mr. Mylo, but you did still have an hour before the reunion got going and you didnt want to bother the elective teachers setting up. Hey, maybe you'd have a chance to properly apologize. Mr. Mylo caught some of your worst attitude, as math was your worst subject. The only teacher here who had it worse still was Mr. Stent, who taught remedial math and was stuck with you at your worst for your later high school experience. Maybe you'd have a chance to apologize to him at some point tonight too. You were hesitant to come to this reunion, knowing you had more to be sorry for than to celebrate. The friends you had made in high school no longer suited you, and you very seldom communicated with any of them anymore, making new friends through work and voluntary community services. You began to question yourself. Why are you here? To punish yourself? Its becoming apparent that you miscalculated the benefits of being here in the first place and are awash with an overwhelming feeling of wanting to leave. It strikes you at this same moment that you have only been given this time to stew as Mr. Mylo has been utterly silent your whole walk to his classroom. As he pushes the aging metal door open with a creak you fess up, "Mr. Mylo, while I've enjoyed our conversation I think I am actually going to be headed home now." You applaud yourself for being concise and speaking your feelings as your therapist has helped you learn to do. Mr. Mylo turns toward you and looks stern. "Already? I'd actually very much like to continue talking, I feel as though you owe me that at least, for the grief you've caused me in the past." Although his blunt words suprised you, he was right. If he was holding out for an apology you've done a crummy job, and he deserves one. The weight of your cruelty through your teen years was a force that managed to pull down your shoulders with guilt and push your body into Mr. Mylo's classroom.

Once inside it became quickly apparent that there was only one proper chair, the rest cheap plastic seats that fit under a desk. Not having seen one in years you grimace at how uncomfortable they are to even look at, as memories of sitting in them for hours at a time come flooding in. In fact, everything in this room floods over you, like the waves of nostalgia washed over you not but 5 minutes ago at Davy Jones locker, waves of nausea crash with each new memory of how much you hated life the last time you were sat where you are stalling to sit right now. You did not realize you were shaking until Mr. Mylo addresses you, "Are you cold?" His voice pierces the fog in your mind and you snap back into the moment. "Sorry, no, I'm fine. Just, to be honest I don't have a lot of good memories here. I am having second thoughts about having come at all, I don't think I'm ready for this." Again, a small part of you knows your therapist would be proud. However, A therapist's advice to speak your wishes clearly, only serves one well when the listening party's intentions are to help you, which you are about to find out is not the case with Mr. Mylo.

You see and hear Mr. Mylo clattering through his bottom desk drawer, and he rises with a bottle of deep red wine and two glasses. "Mr. Stent and I both have our own private stashes, can you guess what little rascal kick-started this tradition?" He says as he uncorks the bottle. "Uh, me?" You say with a nervous laugh. "Yes, you. On the days where you were at your worst we might even start commiserating together before the end-of-day bell. I never thought I'd be opening this drawer to fill a glass for YOU. Here, please." he says, holding out a generously full cup, "It will help your nerves." While you are now 22 and have been legally drinking for some time, the thought of taking alcohol from your previous teacher, especially one you used to give such trouble, did not particularly appeal to you, but you found yourself accepting the glass and sipping it out of social manner. He pours an equally liberal serving for himself but is not so restrained in his sipping. "So," he says as his glass quickly becomes half empty, "Big girl now, huh? Got a big girl job and you came back here to prove us all wrong?" This sudden shift in tone is alarming at best, half a glass of wine is not enough to make one belligerent. You give him a chance to rephrase, "Excuse me?" He continues, "Most of the teachers here believed you wouldn't amount to anything. But me and Stent? We believed you'd amount to even less that that. We expected to see you on the street, doped up and homeless before you ever made it to the 5 year reunion. You're going to lose me a few bets when you walk into the reunion looking like a corporate Sally in your tight little skirt." You cut in, wildly uncomfortable, "This is ridiculous, its been 5 years and I was a teenager when you knew me! I'm sorry for how I treated you, and Mr. Stent, and a lot of the other teachers here, but I've changed and you need to grow up and move on!" You set your drink down roughly enough to spill but not enough to crack the delicate glass on his desk. He flies up from his sitting position and shouts, "Oh I need to grow up? I'm sure you're SO mature after working that 'life insurance' job, huh? You're a liar and a little shit, you know that? Where do you really wear those clothes, hmm? I'm sure you fished 'em out of the 'actress' bin on whatever porn set you just walked off of, didn't you?" Before he had finished that sentence, you are determinately making for the door. You don't need to take this. You are horrified to find it locked, the school door having a complicated system that you can not work out before Mr. Mylo is on you and pressing you into the door. Even pressed flush against the door you still desperately attempted to unlock it with your left hand until he grabs it and pins it beside your face. His breath reaks of alcohol that is far stronger than wine, you curse yourself for not noticing he was already drunk when you first spoke, but assume he must have some practice hiding it. "Oh, dear" he says, breathing heavy from the struggle of keeping you pinned. "I've gone and blown the whole thing now haven't I?"

More cautious for your safety than curious for an answer, you decide the safest route is to beg, hoping that will satisfy him enough to let you go. "You're right, I shouldn't have amounted to anything, but I'm trying really hard and I'm sorry for everything I've done, if you let me go I promise I'll leave straight away so you don't lose any bets, and I won't tell anyone about this." Screw your therapist, you're proud of yourself for that one, and although you were close, you didn't even cry. Unfortunately, begging is not enough, in fact, it seems to have the opposite effect as Mr. Mylo then wraps an arm around you to hold your face, and presses his hips into your backside so you can feel his erection. As hard as you'd been trying to keep it in, feeling his heat against you as he presses you harder into the door was enough to pull a cry from you. Your right hand tugs at the hand on your face, beyond frustrated that you can not get out of his grip. "Oh, come on, this is sad" he laughs, "you've never cried before, not once, and I've done worse"

You were silent and still for a moment. What the fuck did that mean? What. The fuck. Did. That mean. You are struggling to remember when that same wave of sickness that hit you twice before strikes again, which is made infinitely worse when Mr. Mylo starts sucking a welt into the nape of your neck, which earns him a loud gasp from you. He laughs again, "My god you're so sensitive now. Maybe I can come to like the new you."  
You're sick, you are scared, you just want him to stop and to go home but you finally ask a question you need the answer to. You remember your therapy, be clear, be concise.  
"Did you rape me when I was your student?"  
You thought you couldn't be more disgusted with this man but the twitch from his dick and the moan from his throat when you asked that question makes you want to vomit. In one act of mercy he answers quickly, "No. I'm not a pedophile. I had some fun with you when you were especially unruly but I never went that far. But you're not a little girl anymore, are you?" He says, releasing your hand and face to grope you from behind and pull your hair back so he could focus on your neck. He drools like a dog on your neck as he sucks and groans each time he feels a sob break in your throat. Slowly, you move your left hand back to the doorknob and figure out the lock. What you aren't expecting, is how loud the aged metal would snap when the door is unlocked. You were no closer to freedom than before you figured out that stupid lock because soon as it clicks Mr. Mylo is pulling you back from the door by the hair. As he continues to drag you back he says exasperately, "Can't let you go for a second, can I? Always have to do it the hard way with you, but you've given up your fight for flight. Ooh I do miss when you would fight." He regales as he brings you to a desk in the back row. "You remember this desk, this is our special desk, isn't it?" You look down at it and see a large carving in your handwriting on the pale wood. 'FUCK YOU, MR. MYLO' carved deep by the repetitve strokes of a pencil. "Charming, isn't it? They've tried to replace this desk on me a few times, but I fight to keep it. Call me sentimental, I just can't let go of the memories" he says as he slowly bends you over the desk. This position, unfortunately, proves that you too could not let go of the memories. Memories of your head being bashed against this desk after class. Memories of being tethered to this desk while being felt up from all angles after school. Memories of nightmares about this desk after dark. This time, you do vomit.

Or you would, if there were any contents in your stomach to spill. Your involuntary dry heaving has Mr. Mylo backing up, and in that window you are able to elbow him, hard, and dash for the door with all the might you have in you, before you immediately fall to the ground, your right hand above your head as you notice that he has cuffed you to the desk. Now when did he do that? You are flat on your ass, one arm twisted above you where you have fallen in front of the desk, and Mr. Mylo is towering above you, frighteningly tall from this angle. "There's that fight of yours, you're remembering!" He says mockingly sweet as he brushes the hair out of your face. There is so much from your teenage years that you repressed. So many things you were happy to forget and move on from. But how stupid, stupid, stupid could you be to have forgotten about all this and just walked into his classroom alone? Mr. Mylo seems to have a gift for not letting you spiral into negative thought though, as few things can wake someone from a foggy mind like an unexpected cock in their face. You are shocked into the present and Mr. Mylo has his hand throroughly wrapped in your hair as he pulls your face forward until the tip of his manhood rests on your lips. You're not doing this. You can't move your head at all but you remain completely still and close your mouth firmly. He prods at your mouth and pulls your hair tighter. You do not give. "Come on, sweet pea, do we have to dive straight into the main course or can we enjoy ourselves a little first?" You do not answer in fear of what will happen if you open your mouth even the slightest bit. He gets the message.

Mr. Mylo heaves you back up onto the desk top with a sigh and is able to cuff your other hand to a leg of the desk. You cant change positions now no matter what you do. Mr. Mylo moves behind you. There is a silent moment that lasts a lifetime before he tears your skirt and underwear down in one swipe, cold air rushing in and sending a shiver up your spine. You make one last desperate attempt, "Please, please stop." You plead. "I can't do this. Please, I can't do this." You sound pathetic even to yourself. "Please.." you feel his heat at your entrance. "Oh god please." He begins to push, the pressure is building. "Fuck.." He is in and pushing forward, forward slowly forcing his way deeper inside. "..." You try to say something but it comes out as a breathless noise. Your struggling has stopped and you are completely still as your body pains to accomodate him. "Fuck" he finally groans to break the silence, once he is completely hilted. You choke out a sob and the movement causes more pain as he remains buried in you, giving you time to adjust before he continues. You are spent before the first thrust. You are wholely and totally exhausted, miserable. And then he begins pumping into you, and you wish that you were just exhausted again. You are a virgin by no measure, you enjoy sex quite a bit, in fact. You could have never guessed how painful sex could be when you are not properly prepared. You find yourself wondering if you should have just sucked his dick and avoided all this, or at least added some lubrication as you feel the friction tear you. You thank god you are becoming lubricated as he begins a pace, but you're unsure if you have become wet or if that is the blood. You hear him mutter as he fucks you, "good girl, take me in, worth the wait" but you try your best to tune him out, which is easier than expected as you are crying in earnest now. God, you just want it to end. How long do older men last? It cant have even been 10 minutes yet and you already don't know how much more you can take. Then, there is a knock at the door.


	2. Mr. Stent

Before you can cry out Mr. Mylo has a hand over your mouth. He calls, "You can come in, the door is CONVENIENTLY unlocked!" Before the door is opened, a million thoughts rush through your head. Anyone on the other side could be your ticket to freedom, but you can't begin to think clearly with Mr. Mylo still inside you, even though he has halted his motion to greet the guest. The door is meekly opened by the only concievable person who would not help you in this situation, Mr. Stent. Your stomach drops at the sight of him, but it is too disturbed by Mylo's intrusion below, and quickly jumps back up into your ribcage to make you sick again. Behind Mr. Mylo's hand you cry in frustration and disbelief. Is this hell? Is every person you've every wronged going to materialize in this room to fuck you? You know you were a piece of shit in high school but who deserves this? You sob uncontrollably as you see Mr. Stent stare at you with wide eyes and begin to palm himself over his pants as he locks the door behind him. Mr. Mylo doles out a single, vicious thrust that draws a screech from your throat. "What do you think?" He asks the guest. 

Mr. Stent takes his time to respond, slowly walking over with his hands raised to waist level like you are a frightened cat that will run away or scratch if he approaches too quickly. If only you could. As he gets close enough to reach for your head, that is exactly what he does. Mr. Mylo removes his hand from your mouth and Mr. Stent takes your head into both of his hands and shoves your face into his clothed erection, the heat from inside his slacks uncomforfable againt your face. Mr. Mylo still has not pulled out and Mr. Stent is now using your hair as a handle to rub your face into his pants, drying many of your tears but creating just as many new ones in the process, before finally replying, "Yes. This is good, this, this is REAL good" sounding like he was on the edge already. In an intrusive thought you wish he would just come in his pants now and leave, but you know you won't be that lucky. He undoes his pants too close to your face, and when he slides his underwear down and frees up his penis it taps you in the face with an audible smack. Stent laughs like a little boy at this. Too fast for it not to have not been planned, Mr. Mylo violently slams into you with the force to launch you forward and make you yell, and Mr. Stent immediatly jams three fingers between your teeth, prying your jaw open. You wouldn't have assumed this position with a lover on a good day, much less like this, and with them. Seeing as there's very little you can do to get free, you just try to block it all, and go somewhere else mentally, something you remember being good at in your younger years. But you can't quiet your mind screaming, 'This is wrong! Why aren't you fighting harder! This is digusting! Why haven't they started yet?'. It was the last question that broke you out of it as you opened your eyes to see Mr. Stent in front of you, lined up to enter your locked-open mouth, and felt Mr. Mylo just outside your entrance, ready to push back in. Both were simply admiring you. Like children getting exactly what they wanted for Christmas. You involuntarily shudder which seems to remind them both that you are a living person and not a Christmas toy. Mr. Stent pets your hair in a way that might be considered loving if one did not consider every other factor of this scene, and his following brutal tug. He says, "You know, you were a REAL cunt to us not too long ago. Did you know that your daily harrassment of me was so detrimental to my health that it made me impotent for a time? Did you know that?" You didn't. "But this incredble thing happened, my good friend Mr. Mylo tells me not to worry about it. You know why?" You wait for him to finish and another vicious tug on your hair tell you that he wants you to respond. With his fingers in your mouth you reply as best you can, your spit rolling down his hand and onto the dirty floor below. He seems satisfied. "He says Stent, don't worry, you just gotta gain back control. I say, how? He says let me show you, and brings me into this very room where a very feisty girl is tied down to this very same desk. The fear in your eyes when you saw I was joining in on the fun was enough to bring me back to full mast in and of itself." No matter what he says you cannot recall Mr. Stent ever touching you. You're thankful for that, at least. "But I don't roll like that, coz unlike you, I give a shit about how my actions effect people." He continues, "I didn't want to fuck you up for life, like you tried to do to me. And so I tell Mylo, I'll take her at the reunion, are you in? And God did you just walk right into it." Your cheeks are red as he embarasses you on top of the compromising position you are in. He kneels down to get to eye level with you and confesses, "And in the meantime, anytime I had to get it up, I could just imagine how I was gonna rape you when the time came." You meet his eyes and you know you are face to face with a crazy man. "And GOD have I imagined it!" He said, stroking your face with the hand not invading your mouth. "I've imagined raping you since you were sixteen..." You have another bout of dry heaving, but this time, no one pulls away. "And you are so much sadder than I imagined." 

With that, They both reposition themselves and slam in. You gag violently on Mr. Stent and you hear him laugh as he goes for the throat again. And again. And again. Each time you gag and choke, trying to back away but effectively backing into more penetration behind you. You absolutely lose it, flailing so fervently that for moment, you are able to shake Mr. Stent's hold on you and begin to tip the desk over, until his hands are on your shoulders, stabilizing the desk and pressing you harder into it as Mr. Mylo sets a punishing pace behind you. To every higher power you can think of you are desperately praying that a passerby will hear your cries. You have only a moment to be thankful Mr. Stent is no longer in your mouth before Mylo pulls out and spills himself onto your back and hair. The thick liquid seeping into your shirt and mingling with your own saliva from Mr. Stent's wet hand on you shoulder. You want nothing more than for this to be over, but Mr. Stent takes Mylo's place behind you and is exploring your skin with his hands. He touches you like a needy thing, his pawing manic and rough. He rubs himself across your opening and the ache from it's abuse is too fresh, your body jumps forward involuntarily and you squeal, like Mr. Stent is an electric shock you have no choice but to recoil from. You are laughed at for this. "What the fuck is WRONG with you?" You scream through tears, not caring how beaten you sound. "What are you doing? I'm sorry, ok? I fucked up and I'm sorry but this is too much, please, its too much" your protests die in a fit of sobs as Mr. Mylo approaches you, a strip of ductape you didnt even hear torn from the roll in his hand. If he is able to cover your mouth you lose the one chance you had of being heard and helped, and you are determined to not let that happen. You struggle with all you have left in you, crying out for help and rocking the desk back and forth as you writhe and kick. For the first time in the past half hour, you accomplish something; you tip the desk forward and over as the side of your face collides with the ground, squarely in the puddle of spit from Mr. Stent's previous assault. Your hands are still bound to the sides of the desk and your ass is up in the air as you are thoroughly bent by this position. Your head is ringing as the tape is secured over your mouth, immediately nullifying your efforts. 

"Got it out of your system? Are you going to be good now?" Stent teases, hands already back on you as he kneels down and slips a finger into your sore hole. You yelp like a puppy and your head aches from the tumble, you are taken over by a sense of hoplessness you have not felt in a very long time. These men, who were meant to take care of and educate you had been sipping wine and discussing how they would defile you since you were a teenager, and your hard-earned growth since that time meant nothing to them. Maybe your mistakes were too great and you did deserve this. You want to cry but can't find the tears, that is, until Mr. Stent rams into your cervix and locates the tears for you. You scream into the tape but have no means left to fight. Even though you were dry Mr. Mylo started gentle, at least, Mr. Stent pays you no such courtesy. You can feel your hips bruising against the back of the desk as he mercilessly fucks you, tamer even less in his words, you can't tune out his breathless voice. "FUCK I've been waiting for this, you're such a bad girl, but being so good for me, I should have done this so long ago, bet you would have been even better then, woulda loved to have seen all that makeup running down your face, this is what you fucking get, you little bitch" Everything hurts, your sobbing picks up as his pace does. "Oh so sweet crying for me, please cry for me, you had this coming, you're so tight, fuck" God, you wish the tape were over his mouth. He pulls out suddenly and you tense as you wait for his climax, praying no more gets in your hair. Your clean-up is already going to be a terrible errand. Your thoughts are cut off by Mr. Stent and Mylo lifting yourself and the desk back to its original position. So soon as this is done Stent is back inside you, resuming his horrible dialogue. "Aw, thought we were done, sweetie? Oh no, we're not done till you've paid for everything you've done to me and Mylo. Speaking of, someone looks happy to see you!" You can hear the wicked grin in his voice as he pulls your hair back and positions you face-to-face with Mr. Mylo's quickly growing second erection. With each thrust your face is pushed to touch it and for the first time you are thankful for the ductape, and excessively hopeful it remains on. "I bet you want that tape off so you can suck his cock, don't you?" You try to ignore Mr. Stent as you tightly shut your eyes, you can feel the tip beginning to leak onto your cheek. "Wanna lick it clean? You made quite the mess, didn't you? You sloppy slut". You try to break from his hold and manage to get your face far enough from Mr. Mylo's dick that you can focus on it. He is stroking slowly and you see his penis is still painted with your blood. You are violently ill. You gag and heave, your breathing is manic and sweat is rolling down your face and back as you struggle against Stent. Maintaining his rhythm below, he pulls you up by the hair, back towards himself, until the handcuffs are at the very top of the desk legs and your back is almost pressing against his chest. He reaches a hand up your shirt and feels your rapid heartbeat and panicked breathing through your chest. His pounding is becoming less consistent but rougher as he nears his finish. "God you're good. How long have you hid these tits from me? You like it when I squeeze them while I fuck you? You like this?" He growls as his thrusts become frantic. "You've always wanted this haven't you? Fuck, yes you have you little tease. You wanted me to fuck your little pussy and make you scream." And scream you do, as hard as you can through the tape as Mr. Stent bites into your shoulder and finishes with a deep thrust that makes your vision go blurry. 

You are wracked with sobs as he holds you close, hand still locked on your chest and his cock still inside you. It is then the dawning horror strikes that he has come inside of you, and he retracts himself with a very wet pop. You are beyond spent, the clock you are stood facing telling you that your ordeal has lasted nearly an hour. Every inch of you is numb and you shiver as you feel something warm slowly ooze down your inner thigh. He releases you and you fall onto the desk top, your legs unable to support you as your knees buckle under the desk. You vaguely hear the men bickering in the background as the sound of your pounding heart fills your head. You think you hear Stent say the words "shooting blanks". This gives you the glimmer of calm needed to allow your mind to shut down and let you rest. 

You awake hours later, long after the reunion festivities are over and done. It is dark outside and a street light pours beems of white through the old, tattered blinds. You are still bent over the desk but the handcuffs are gone and your clothes had been shuffled back onto you. Your back is in agony as you pull yourself up. As you stand you can see that you are not wearing the clothes you arrived in, your shirt has been replaced with a Nattler High tee and your pants seem to be part of a band uniform, you weren't given underwear. You half-wondered if they had taken your clothing for evidence purposes or mementos; you'd shudder at the thought if you had the energy. Heading for the door you notice a note on Mr. Mylo's desk, it reads, 'hope you learned something from today's lesson plan, we took the liberty of cleaning up for you'. Ah, evidence it was. It didn't matter, you had no intention of reporting them to anyone. They were right about a lot of things, and the guilt of how much you had antagonized them sat in your gut with so many other heavy things for years. A large part of yourself believes that this assault really was a penance for past mistakes and this was how you could be forgiven. It felt good to imagine finally releasing that guilt. Insides aching, you make your way out of the school, and accept that there are many people from your past life you may require "forgiveness" from in the same manner, and you're going to make things right with all of them.


End file.
